Little Blue Dress
by lena1987
Summary: Now a two-shot. One fleeting moment in Hogsmeade changes the way Hermione Granger thinks about Professor Snape. Post war. AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_As per usual, Severus and Hermione belong to JKR. This is now a two-shot._

* * *

 **Little Blue Dress**

The December afternoon is bitterly cold and Hogsmeade is covered in snow. As she trudges along, head bent down against the wind, Hermione decides that the village looks like the inside of a snow globe.

The streets are almost deserted, though it does not fool her. Most of the other students are here somewhere to buy last minute gifts, and the shops are so full that they look as if they'll burst at any moment. But not many are outside; instead they hurry from shop to shop, easing their way inside crowded aisles and shouting out apologies for bringing in the weather.

She is bundled up in layers in an attempt to hold off the chill that will no doubt seep into her bones. Her hood is pulled up and almost over her face; she is largely unrecognisable.

Just another student.

Which is probably for the best, considering what currently has her transfixed.

Students don't bother to come this far up the main street; fair enough, she supposes, given it caters more to those who live within the village. There are the odd clothing stores, and a nondescript looking pub towers over everything else.

Except for this store.

It's tiny. A poor excuse for a retail shop, really. Hermione wonders if she should send an anonymous suggestion via Owl then dismisses the idea as foolish.

Besides, it means that it'll stay this way. Small, inviting.

Discreet.

She is so close to the window that her nose almost touches the glass. The display is beautiful, but it isn't the flowers that cascade down from the roof inside that has caught her eye.

No - it is the dress.

Next to her average height, it is positively miniscule. The mannequin would surely only come up to her knees.

She places her palms onto the glass window and sighs. It is enchanting. Hermione can see it in her mind's eye now, this lovely little blue dress. It would fit a little girl - lost in the daydream, she decides that the girl has wild, mahogany curls (for how could a babe be born of her body and not inherit her horrid hair, after all).

The dress is sleeveless - the type that is terribly unsuited to the current weather. Lace lines the collar; just a small amount of pure white. The material of the garment looks so soft that it could be silk - foolish for a child that would spill something onto it in seconds, but perhaps charms have been added to it.

Forgetting herself, Hermione clucks her tongue and huffs. Of course there are charms added to it.

Sometimes she forgets where she actually is - forgets _what_ she is.

Especially when she is fixated on the beautiful blue dress. Hermione is too young for a child - she's not married, nor is she in a relationship for goodness' sake, but for a long moment her chest burns with the longing of it all. It burns so much that she doesn't factor in the fact that she is only nineteen – twenty now, if she's honest – and has only just survived a war.

Perhaps it's the time of year - she's always a bit maudlin, a little emotional, around Christmas. It could be the war; surviving it has led to a desire for something tangible rather than sweaty handshakes and medals shoved into her grasp by warbling personalities.

Her heart aches for this little girl that she sees in the back of her mind. A little girl that twirls and spins, a girl that sticks her tongue out to catch the falling snow.

Is it a glimpse of her future?

"Oh, I hope so," she whispers reverently, so lost in the image that she doesn't realise how her hands have clutched onto her empty stomach.

Hermione finally notices the little ivory coat that the shopwitch has just levitated onto another mannequin - it is to match the dress. She sighs again, taken over by the simple, delicate beauty of the clothes.

A child!

She hasn't ever thought of children - hasn't ever dreamed of a swollen belly nor ten little fingers and ten little toes. The whole concept should be absurd to her, at her age.

But it isn't.

"Oh," she breathes, unable to formulate words. The desire is so strong that it is almost painful.

It is then that she sees him.

Him.

He doesn't know she's noticed him. Of course he hasn't - he'd be gone in the blink of an eye.

He is but a shadow across the street, leaning with his back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

All of this is normal.

And yet...

She dares to glance at his reflection. Even from here, she can see how his eyes are burning; she can picture easily just how intense the obsidian orbs would be.

He isn't looking at her.

No. Not at all.

He's focusing on the same thing that she is - he believes he is safe, because he's sensed, even from across the street, how beguiled Hermione is by the dainty little blue dress in the window.

He is looking at the dress. Staring at it, drinking it in like a man whose mouth is parched.

Hermione no longer watches the dress. She is very careful; she does nothing except move her eyes to study his reflection, to catch the way one of his hands reaches out just for a second as if he is chasing another little girl, one with straight silken hair, one with eyes as dark as the night sky.

He is as lost as she is.

It knocks the wind out of her to see him like this. Since his return to Hogwarts, he has been vacant, quiet, and almost unobtrusive in his unfamiliar teaching methods. He barely raises his voice these days, and she had thought him close to dead inside.

Until now.

His lower lip is turned down into a slight wince and he closes his eyes, as if the longing for something he believes he'll never have is _just too hard._

Seeing him like this bothers Hermione; it hurts her just as much as the desire for this phantom child did.

She doesn't want to bring him out of whatever scene he has conjured in his mind - she's sure that it would be beautiful, that the child he's thinking of would be absolutely stunning - but she can't bear to see him like this.

Not after all he's done.

In a movement so swift that Professor Snape flinches with surprise, she whips around and marches across the street. She pretends that she hasn't seen him until she attempts to move past him to get into the shop he's been hovering outside of - some dull looking Divination store - and she crashes into him with purpose.

"Oh!" Hermione stumbles a bit, and his strong hands take a hold of her arms to steady her. She blinks the snow out of her eyes and looks up at him to see him scowling down at her. It's a relief, the scowl. It's been as absent as his usual snarl.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she murmurs, daring to smile so he's distracted enough to keep his hands on her. "Lovely day."

He says nothing.

He's so close that she begins to wonder if she should just kiss him. It stuns her, this thought, and by the widening of his eyes it's obvious that he saw the way her gaze darted to his thin lips. She's never wanted to kiss Professor Snape before.

And why not? It's a valid question, one to be thought over; he's an arresting, striking man. Intelligent and almost beautiful in his gracefulness. Even his hair – she wants to touch the thin strands of black silk and see for herself how they truly feel.

Hermione has barely wanted any other man at all.

But he's caught her, taken her in hook line and sinker and he hasn't even meant to do so.

Hermione swallows and clears her throat. He won't speak; she knows now that he won't even say a word.

The strange, tense atmosphere between them is excruciating and she doesn't know how to get herself out of it. All she knows is that she must - she must move past him, she must go back to the castle, she must sit on her own and analyse just why she suddenly and very unexpectedly wants this unhappy, bitter man settled between her thighs, moving with her. She wants his downturned lips on her skin; she wants his long, talented fingers to trace circles down her spine.

She wants to be the catalyst for him to feel alive again.

Hermione is almost breathless.

"Sir," she mumbles, her cheeks a mortified shade of red. She doesn't want to look away from his eyes - he looks puzzled now, almost intrigued by this slip of a girl who he's still holding onto. He tilts his head to the side. Hard black eyes soften.

"Sir?"

A door opens somewhere down the street and the noise that cascades over them is enough for Professor Snape to blink twice then give a short, tense huff. His fingers uncurl and slowly retreat from her warm winter cloak.

Hermione doesn't want him to speak. She knows he'll go for the jugular, insult her in some way, and she doesn't want to ruin the realisation that she desires him so fiercely that underneath all of her layers, her upper arms are burning from the way he held her.

And somehow, judging by the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again, Hermione thinks that he has come to the same conclusion. He looks down at his hands and examines them, like he has been branded from touching her. This is most telling; exceedingly gratifying.

She must leave.

"Good afternoon, Professor," she whispers, breaking the moment without meeting his eyes. She walks away from him quickly, not even bothering to enter the shop.

At the end of the street, she is filled with temptation and she gives into it. Hermione turns and searches for him.

He's still there.

She grins widely; she even giggles a bit.

Because he's still standing in exactly the same place and the display in the shop window has been forgotten.

Now he is watching _her._


	2. Chapter 2

_Good grief, you lot are insatiable! No big endings here; just enough to know that they're on their way._

* * *

 **Part Two: Twelve Months Later**

Severus stands on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The weather is absolutely abysmal; snow is falling into his hair and coating his eyelashes. He blinks it away then brings one glove covered hand to his forehead in an attempt to shield his eyes from this natural foe.

Light is shining out of the windows of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Despite the heavy enchantments that still protect it, laughter and the clinking of glasses can be clearly heard, even though he is standing across the road.

Why, exactly, is he here and not on the doorstep? He shrugs to himself. There is no solid answer; there is only a suspicion, an inkling. Perhaps even a desire.

This desire, this suspicion, has a name.

It is a name that astounds him even now, a little over a year to the day that it began. It is a name that used to evoke feelings of ambivalence in the past; not annoyance, as this woman would probably assume. There was a grudging form of respect, possibly a slight thread of exasperation, but never annoyance.

Severus has always been a consummate actor. No doubt the woman that has him standing out here in the freezing cold snow hated him on and off throughout her life, and he is glad of it. It is just one more file in the evidence pile that points towards a job well done.

But now the job is over. The spying has ended and both of his masters are dead.

And what does he have left?

A few things. He has his colleagues back; those that fell for his well played rouse all but sat at his feet to grovel and apologise. It was sickening, mostly, though not unwelcome.

Severus has his job – not the old one, the one he had for the worst year of his life. No, he has his original position: his classroom in the dungeons, instructing the youth of today on how to not eviscerate themselves with badly made potions. Severus enjoys his job – it would knock over some students just as fiercely as a jinxed bludger, but he truly doesn't mind quiet evenings spent with essays and a glass of red. Dunderheads he could keep or lose while remaining unperturbed, yet his private laboratory still makes him cackle with glee when he enters the pristine environment every Sunday morning.

Severus has his colleagues, and he has his job. What else does he have?

He retains some of the privileges that only a Headmaster or Headmistress can lay claim to. Apparating from his sitting room to the bedroom is possible. Commanding the staircases – albeit with cloying sentiments that must be voiced aloud – is something he can do at the drop of a hat. He can even _feel_ the magic of the castle; it greets him like an old friend when he strolls in from a late night walk. The great doors open of their own accord and a gentle whisper of magic washes over him with all the subtlety of a slight breeze.

This, above all, makes him think that it was a good idea in the end to return to Hogwarts. At first he considered the idea abhorrent; that he should teach students when he had done such a good job in ruining them, in making them into little more than subservient numbers. The initial offer from the board made him throw up the contents of his mediocre dinner – they wanted him back as the Headmaster.

His response is still considered to be the one and only time the Board of Governors has ever received a howler with two simple words: 'Piss off.'

They were not deterred.

Severus can recognise that, now, he is rather glad that they held on with all of the enthusiasm of a dog biting down on the trouser leg of an unwanted intruder. He is at home in Hogwarts. He is at home _with_ Hogwarts.

Yet for all of this, for all that he has… Severus Snape is left wanting.

He is still stationary on the street, barely moving. He studies the windows and watches the shadows of figures moving around inside of the house. It is lucky that he is late, or else he might have had to explain to those Apparating in why it is that he is standing rooted to the spot.

How on earth can he explain? The question brings a scowl to his face; he has nothing to go by. For all of his spying years, he has no tangible proof that what he truly desires even exists! His list of wants and wishes is so long that there is not one person that could fulfill them.

And yet…

There is a woman inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

She is…

Severus scuffs his boots on the cement. He cannot bring himself to name her, for in his mind, this woman has existed as something not unlike a beacon. A lighthouse. He all but stumbled onto her one afternoon in winter a year ago; he had been lost in the sight of a beautiful, delicate little blue dress displayed so carefully in a shop window. He still does not know how long he stood across the way, admiring the silk and lace and all the while mourning for the child that he would never have. It had never been a strong inclination, not in the past, but it floored him. The dress ruined him. It sparked a yearning, an almost painful longing inside of his very soul.

He wanted a family.

It was foolish.

Impossible.

And then this lighthouse, this flesh and blood woman, came tumbling down into his line of vision, falling onto him – or into him – with all of that bubbling enthusiasm that only Hermione Granger could provide.

Oh, but she is lovely. He understands now that she truly is beautiful.

Hermione has not blossomed; her breasts haven't suddenly grown, her hips have not announced themselves. The wild nest that masquerades as hair has not dropped into elegant curls.

She is short and slim, her voice clear and sharp. Her front teeth could be weapons; her hair is a storm of curls.

Hermione is utterly lovely.

She carries a certain grace, Severus thinks; it's in the turn of her head, the way she strokes her fingers down the front covers of books when she is elsewhere in her mind. Her lashes are thick and frame her wide, doe eyes. When he caught her last year on the main street of Hogsmeade, right down at the end where no other students had bothered to venture, his arms had held her so close to him that he could see tiny spots of green inside those eyes, framed by those lashes that carried tiny flecks of snow.

The juxtaposition of her pale skin and dark hair and eyes ensnared him. He hadn't wanted to let go of her. She'd spoken some words, polite greetings if the way her lips formed them was anything to go by, but he barely noticed. He only knew the warm weight of her body on his. Even through all of the layers they both wore, he felt a dearly missed and seldom seen sense of heat travelling from his fingers that touched her arms to his heart, then down, down, down to the part of his body that represented desires that were far from what he realised much later that he wanted from her.

After the moment in the street, Severus watched Hermione from afar. At first it was curiosity that made him pause and linger for a moment longer when he saw her in the library, her hair twisted up and an errant curl escaping just to the left of her neck. Curiosity became a compelling fascination with the witch; he read her essays twice and when she came to his office one weekend afternoon to search for her bag that they both knew she hadn't left there, attraction slammed into him and left him breathless.

What does he feel now?

He knows the answer well enough – he should, given the months that he has spent deliberating over it. Her shy glances and sideways smiles did nothing but drive him to further examine the strange fluttering in his chest when she passed him in the halls or glanced his way during meals.

Hermione did not give him life; she did not return passion to his dreams nor lust to his emotions.

At least, she did not do it on her own.

Severus has constructed something akin to an alternate reality in his mind; one where he walks the streets with her tucked into his side, where he places a ring on her finger and sees her belly swell with his child. The age difference does not factor into it – both are naturally nervous people, and so the similarities far outweigh such superficial differences. Nor does he see a student; her uniform is only a product of the environment that he found her in. All he sees is the woman that he wants.

This woman – this lighthouse, this beacon, this catalyst – is inside the house. The invitation to the Christmas Eve party is crumpled into a ball in his pocket.

Severus swallows. He could go in – he _can_ go in.

What is his very life, after all, if not a second chance? He has waited for this; for her to graduate, to leave the nest.

Now he has his chance.

He looks both ways down the street – a habit he'll never break – and blows out a long breath.

 _Start as you mean to go on._

Right. Sod insecurities; shortcomings can also cordially bugger off.

Somehow he's gotten onto the doorstep. Not having an idea of how it happened, Severus decides instead to fill his lungs and push open the front door.

…

With a drink in his hand and a biscuit in the other, Severus stands in the corner of the room.

He is transfixed.

Hermione is here, in all of her glory. Her too slim frame is wrapped up in a dress that is as blue as the bottom of the ocean. She's done something to her hair – thankfully not with that awful smoothing concoction, but something that makes it extra curly, even lovelier.

It is not his imagination that she has been casting teasing glances his way all evening. The reassuring understanding that even just a shred of the love he feels for her is reciprocated is enough to make him set his drink down on the nearest surface, smooth his hands down his frock coat and make his way over to her.

A Weasley scampers off as he approaches; he barely notices.

All of his attention is focused on this woman, this ethereal creature, who fell into his arms one afternoon and who he has been wanting back in his embrace ever since.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Hermione says softly, looking up at him with eyes that he wants to fall into.

 _Now or never._

He turns her greeting on its head. "Merry Christmas, _Hermione_." How he has wished to say her name like this! To stretch out the vowels, emphasise the 'mion' so it sounds like 'my own'.

The smile she grants him is beatific. The way she stutters out her next sentence is endearing.

"How are you, S-Severus?"

"Excellent," he says simply, because it is _true._

" _Are_ you?" Hermione presses, beaming up at him like she has discovered his badly hidden secret.

"I am. And you are…?"

What will she choose? If she has unraveled his poorly made up disguise, the one that covers how much he is in love with her, then what answer will she give him, if his instincts are right and his feelings are welcome?

Her brow furrows in thought and then her face lights up again. "Splendiferous."

It is a good thing he left his glass behind or he would've dropped it. "Good grief," he returns without thinking. "That's a lot to live up to."

The way she sidles closer to him is intoxicating. "Oh, I think it will be quiet easy. In fact…"

"Don't." He is firm; absolute. "Don't say it."

"Why ever not?" Hermione pouts and crosses her arms. "I was only going to ask if you –"

As a last resort, Severus covers her mouth with his index finger. It stuns him when she places a quick kiss to the calloused appendage. He takes a small step closer; their bodies are pressed together, just as they were in Hogsmeade.

"Don't sidetrack me, witch," he growls, amazed that he is flirting with this enchanting woman. The way she throws her head back and laughs will stay imprinted on his mind for years. It is this moment, this laugh and the little titters that follow it… It is this that tells him that yes – he is welcome.

It is all he has ever wanted.

"Go on, then," she dares him. "Say what you have to say. Be the first one."

Severus tilts his head to the side and cocks an eyebrow. Instantly Hermione bites her lower lip; oh yes, he's right – she _is_ attracted to him. The thrill of this realisation is marvellous.

He had hoped to be suave and composed but instead his voice breaks when he blurts out, "Come to dinner with me, Hermione."

It is unbelievable, but it happens anyway. She answers him with an easy movement, as if she has practiced this in her mind countless times. It is perfect; a little awkward, a little hesitant, entirely fantastic.

She answers him with a kiss.

.

.

* * *

The End.


End file.
